Kai hiwatari
by Dark Kai
Summary: Kai hiwatari. He has no past. And he may have no future. His memory is a blank. His bullet-ridden body was fished from Mediteranean Sea. His face has been altered by plastic surgery. A frame of microfilm has been surgucally implanted in his hip. Even his


Dark kai: Hey everyone! I have made a new story!  
  
Everyone: groan!  
  
Dark kai: What!?!?!?! Oh, come you guys! Least be happy that everyone is going to be in the story.  
  
Everyone:..  
  
Dark kai: GRR. Fine, then! If you're all going to be like that! I'm going to make you Suffer in this story and kill you one by one! OR I can make you all die, by a horrible death.  
  
Everyone: WHAT!?!?!?!?!?!? * Surprised*  
  
Dark kai: Humph! * Looks away! Standing in the kai position*  
  
Kai: that's my style standing! You can't go copy someone style.  
  
Dark kai: kai, have you forgot! I'm the other half of you, the evil half! * Grinning*  
  
Kai: oh yeah! I forgot!  
  
Dark kai: anyway here is the story! THAT I WROTE! * Turns to kai and glares* ____________________________________________________________________ Chapter 1  
  
The trawler plugged into the angry swells of the dark, furious sea like an awkward animal trying desperately to break out of an impenetrable swamp. The waves rose to goliathan heights, crashing into a hull with the power of raw tonnage; the white sprays caught in the night sky cascaded downward over the deck under the force of the night wind. Everywhere there were the sounds of inanimate pain, wood straining against wood, ropes twisting, stretched to the breaking point. The animal was dieing. Two abrupt explosions pierced the sounds of the sea and the wind and the vessel's pain. They came from the dimly lit cabin that rose and fell with its host body. A man lunged out of the door grasping the railing with one hand, holding his stomach is the other.  
  
A second man followed, the pursuit cautious, his intent violent. He stood bracing himself in the cabin door; he raised the gun and fired again. The man at the railing whipped his hands up to his head, arching backward under the impact of the fourth bullet. The trawlers bow dipped suddenly into the valley of two giant waves, lifting the wounded man off his feet; he twisted to his left unable to take his hands away from his head. The boat surged upward, bow and midships more out of the water than in it, sweeping the figure in the doorway back in the cabin, a fifth gunshot was fired wildly. The wounded man screamed, his hands now lashing out at anything he could grasp, his eyes blinded by blood and unceasing spray of the sea. There was nothing he could grab, so he grabbed at nothing; his legs buckled as his body lurched forward. The boat rolled violently leeward and the man skull was ripped opened plugged over the side into the madness of the darkness below.  
  
He felt rushing cold water envelop him, swallowing him, sucking him under and twisting him in circles, then propelling him up to the surface-only to gasp a single breath of air. A gasp and under he went again. And there was heat, a strange moist heat at his temple that seared through the freezing water that kept swallowing him, a fire where no fire should burn. There was ice, too; an ice likes throbbing in his stomach and his legs and his chest, oddly warmed by the cold sea around him. He felt these things, acknowledging his own panic as he felt them. He could see his own body turning and twisting, arms and feet working frantically against the pressures of the whirlpool. He could feel, think, see, perceive panic and struggling-yet strangely there was peace. It was the calm of the observer, the uninvolved observer, separated from the events, knowing of them but not essentially involved. Then another form of panic spread through him, surging through the heat and the ice and the uninvolved recognition. He could not summit to peace! Not yet! It would happen any second now; he was not sure what it was, but it would happen. He had to be there. He kicked furiously, clawing at heavy walls of water above, his chest burning. He broke surface, thrashing to stay on top of the black swells. Climbing up! And up! A monstrous rolling wave accommodated; he was on the crest, surrounded by pockets of foam and darkness. Northing. Turn! Turn!  
  
It happened. The explosion was massive; he could hear it through the crashing waters and the wind, the sight and the sound somehow his doorway to peace. The sky lit up like a fiery diadem and within that crown of fire, objects of all shapes and sizes were blown through the light into the outer shadows. He won. Whatever it was, he won.  
  
Suddenly he was plummeting downward again, into an abyss again. He could feel the rushing waters over his shoulders, cooling the white-hot heat at his temple, warming the ice-cold incisions in his stomach and his legs and.. His chest. His chest was in agony! He had been struck-the blow crushing, the impact sudden and intolerable. It happened again! And again! And he clawed again and kicked again.. Until he felt it. A thick, oily object that moved only with movements of the sea. He could not tell what it was, but it was there and he could feel it, hold it.  
  
Morning..  
  
The rays of early sun broke through the mists of the eastern sky, lending glitter to calm the water of Mediterranean. The skipper of the small fishing boat, his eyes bloodshot, and his hands marked with rope burns, sat on the stern gunnel smoking a Gauloise, grateful for the sight of the smooth sea. He glanced over the open wheelhouse; his younger brother was easing the throttle forward to make better time, the single other crewman checking a net several feet away. They were laughing at something and that was good; there had been nothing to laugh about last night. Where did the storm come from? The weather reports from Marseilles and indicated nothing; if they had he would have stayed in the shelter of the coastline. He wanted to reach the fishing grounds eighty kilometres south of La Seyne-sur-Mer by daybreak, but not costly these days? Or at the expense of his life, and there were moments last night when that was a distinct consideration.  
  
"Tu es fatigu'e, hein, mon fr'ere?" his brother shouted, grinning at him. "Va te coucher maintenant. Laisse-moi faire!"  
  
"D'accord!" the brother answered, throwing his cigarette over the side and sliding down to the deck on top of the net. "A little sleep won't hurt!"  
  
The boat drive closed his eyes, letting his hands soak in the rolling water on the deck. The salt of the sea would be good for the rope burns. Burns received while lashing equipment that did not care to stay put up in the storm.  
  
"Look! Over there!" Nick yelled, while pointing to where ever he was looking.  
  
It was his brother; apparently sleep was denied by sharp family eye.  
  
"What is it?" Steven yelled.  
  
"Port bow! There's a man in the water! He's holding on to something! A piece of debris, a plank of some sort!" Nick yelled back.  
  
The skipper took the wheel!  
  
Dark kai: There!  
  
Tyson: why wasn't I in it?  
  
Dark kai: because I haven't got to the part that you come in and stop eating the fridge!  
  
Tyson: oh!  
  
Tala: * walks by* hey dark kai! Umm.you know that thing that your mom made, well.. it's.ah!  
  
Dark kai: Tala, say it already!  
  
Tala: it's um...it's gone!  
  
Dark kai: what?  
  
Tala: max ate it!  
  
Dark kai: GRRRR.. MMMMMAAAAAAXXXXXXX!!!!!!!!  
  
Max: *gulp * * Dark kai ran after max*  
  
Kai: anyway, good night! Ooooh.. this fight is going to be good! 


End file.
